cruelty, in eating the "pretty creatures;" but we never found that
they had any scruples in partaking of them at dinner. It was usually
as they were watching of a summer evening the flight of the parent
birds that we were taxed with our barbarity.

We were one day much amused by a clergyman of our acquaintance, who
kept a great number of these birds in a room, and who, in default of
children to pet, made pets of his pigeons. At dinner, a pigeon-pie
made part of the repast. This was placed opposite a visitor, who was
requested to carve the dainty. He did so, and sent a portion of it to
his host. The reverend gentleman looked at the plateful sent him
attentively, and then said with a sigh, "I will trouble you to
exchange this for part of the other bird. _This_ was a peculiar
favorite, and I always fed it myself. I put a mark on the breast after
it was picked, for I could not bear to eat the little darling!"

We always thought that this sentimental divine had better either not
have had the "little darling" put into the pie, or have swallowed his
feelings and his favorite at the same time.

This dish seems to occasion wit as well as sentiment, for we were once
asked by a facetious friend, "Why is a pigeon in a pie like
Shakspeare's Richard III?" We "gave it up," and were told, "Because it
was bound unto the steak (stake), and could not fly." This may perhaps
be a worn-out jest, but it was fresh to the writer, and so perhaps it
may be to some of her readers.

We will say a few words on the management of pigeons before we
conclude this chapter.